Stained Glass Figures
by thebloodinside
Summary: In the first moments after the battle for Hogwarts has ended, two unlikely allies find strength through each others' pain. Originally written for the LiveJournal community dramionedrabble's 2008 Halloween challenge, each chapter was based on a prompt.
1. Immediately After

"No tears please, it's a waste of good suffering."  
-- _Hellraiser_

* * *

It is over. Your world is broken and shattered, and yet, amidst the darkness, hope is renewed again. It is over.

And this is all you can think, that single magical -- _magical_, you think, and it makes you laugh -- phrase over and over in your head. Like a silent charm, alleviating the pain from years of fear. And you are amazed how easy it all seems in hindsight. How logical.

After all, logic is what you know best. And inside your head, all the pieces of the puzzle are falling into place and from the here and now it all seems as if it were preordained. Inevitable. You will use that word more in the coming weeks than you have in your entire life. And a part of you doesn't believe in that sort of thing, _fate_... except that it happened. And you were a witness.

You believe what you see, you always have. The concrete, the substantial. They are your tools and with them you forge a reality so complete you have no need for abstractions, for anything _other_.

It's a tricky thing, believing something you cannot see, and particularly so for you. So when he kisses your hand and tells you he loves you before leaving your side, you want to believe it, but you haven't learned to yet. You haven't practised and perfected this concept of love, and even though inside you it feels right, your head is uneasy.

You wander through hallways, littered with amoral debris from a principled war and think how lucky you are not to be a part of the decoration. And that's another thing you never believed in before now. And yet you realise how absolutely critical it was, that luck, in making it to the end. Luck and inevitability. They were the lifeblood of your war.

The farther you walk, the more removed you feel. It is hard to believe any of this has happened at all. The horrors fade to the peripheries of your mind, like a dream fades into meaninglessness every second you're awake, and you want to walk forever. You're exhausted, your legs protest another step, but your mind pleads escape. You've been moving for so long now, you don't know how you'll ever stop.

But oddly enough, you do. He is standing close enough to touch, his forehead pressed against a crumbling wall, weeping unashamedly. And this was supposed to be the villain of your story. Perhaps he is _still_ the villain of your story.

His head whips around and trembling hands wipe tears from large, crazed eyes. They stare at you, and you are scared for the brief moment it takes you to realise that _he_ is scared. Terrified. And you are not sure if it is you that terrifies him or the fact that anyone has discovered his shame, but really you don't care either way. He's pathetic, you see, and you don't care what he's been through or what he'll go through after this. You just care that at some point in your story, he was labelled a villain and it doesn't make a difference if it's present or past tense.

And anger you didn't even know you had wells up in you like a boiling spring and your wand is jabbed in the side of his neck and you demand, calmly and strongly: "Stop crying."

Which he does, and that makes you feel guilty and powerful at the same time. And you think, _this is going to change his life_. And immediately after you wonder who you really mean -- him or you? You blink and the thought disappears, but you know it will come back, some time when you're feeling a little too content with life. For the moment, you let it go and press your wand just the tiniest bit harder, and he clenches his jaw.

"We all have to live with things we've done. And _you_ don't get to regret anything."


	2. Someone Other

_"She just goes a little mad sometimes. We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you?"  
-- Psycho_

* * *

You don't know what makes you do it. Your lips are pressed aggressively against his and your tongue is forcing his mouth open. After a pause, he responds, but your mind is otherwise engaged, overactive, trying to deduce where in Merlin's name this impulse came from. You're certain it didn't come from your head; you hadn't even realised you were thinking of doing it until it was done. And it didn't come from your heart; you hate this man. And the only way that your tired brain can think to explain the phenomenon that is this forbidden kiss is that somehow, silently, _he_ put the thought in your head. How dare he!

You reel back, your face contorted into rage, and your open palm swipes his cheek. In another second, your wand is tucked under the front of his chin, pushing so violently into his skin that his face and neck begin to tremble.

"Do you want to die?" And it's not a question, which surprises you. When did you resort to threats?

"No." You barely hear it; it's no more than a breathless whimper. But that single word tells you he thinks you're going to do it. And that's such an absurd thought to you -- you would never _kill_ him... But a dozen shocked and frozen faces suddenly infiltrate your thoughts and you have to force yourself not to count how many people -- _Death Eaters_, you justify to yourself -- you killed downstairs tonight.

You had rushed into the halls of Hogwarts intending to use Harry's simple yet effective Expelliarmus. But as friends and loved ones fell beside you, mouths agape and eyes sightless, you went straight for the Avada, like a bloody-nosed child on the playground to the arms of her harsh and overprotective mother. And she will remind you every day after this of what she did for you, to protect you, just so that you know you need her. Because that is what it all comes down to: you used the killing curse, and it saved you. It saved you and you owe everything to that bloody curse, for the simple reason that you're still standing here, going on, _being_.

And that foul word, _murder_, does not judge and takes no sides. It doesn't care if you killed Death Eaters or nuns, the fact is that you killed. And no matter how absurd that thought is to you, you realise he's right to be scared. Because you _have_ done it, and you could again. And you wonder if this man -- this _boy_ -- before you has. Is he a member of that exclusive and infernal club of the damned?

"Why didn't you give us up to your father?"

His mouth twitches but gives no answer, and you are too tired to repeat yourself. You lower your wand, step back. This boy is just a wounded animal and you are the hunter who has let him go. These oscillations from one extreme to the next make you feel mad and maybe you deserve to be. Maybe you all are by this point. And if you're not, maybe you should be.

You drop your wand to the floor and back away, offering open palms in front of you as a sign of surrender. Who'd have thought you would surrender this night?

"I..." he stumbles and you raise your eyebrows. "I don't know. It didn't feel right."

_Right_? As if this boy has any concept whatsoever of what is _right_. You laugh, lips pulled back over your teeth, and shriek with gaudy, terrifying laughter. And then you stop. Because there is nothing funny about any of this and, suddenly, thinking about this war makes you want to vomit. You became someone you weren't during this war. And you, Hermione Granger, will never be the you you were again. Already, you know there is no going back. And you feel so... so... e m p t y...

"I'm not who you think I am."

And you're startled to hear those words. Are they yours or his? You blink and ask yourself whose voice broke the silence. It couldn't have been his. It couldn't have. It _couldn't_ have.

"I know," you say. And you mean it.


	3. Convergence

_"Hey, maybe you haven't been keeping up on current events, but we _

_just got our asses kicked, pal!"  
-- Alien_

* * *

In the slanted light of dawn, you can see only half of his smudged and tired face and think nature is playing at a nasty mockery. Or maybe it is you, overanalysing out of habit, your logical brain searching for meaning in a tableau vivant you otherwise could not understand: a bushy-haired girl sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with a pale and pointy boy, ignoring common horrors shared between two unequivocally different lives. And half of his face in shadow, half in light. A nasty, dirty mockery indeed.

But it is surprisingly easy being with him, forgiving with him, deteriorating with him. There is no need to be that other person, that pre-war Hermione, the one you doubt you could recognise if you met her on the street. You don't have to pretend to be thankful -- you're not. Now that this godforsaken war is over, where does that leave you? This war has been your life, your purpose, for seven years. And, though you would never admit it, Voldemort gave you friends, in a way. They always looked to you, always trusted you, always _kept_ you, because they needed you to solve their puzzles. What now, when the puzzles are filled in and left to the past? You know, in your heart, who moves forward, and who stays behind.

And that utter despair you feel, that insecurity over why they should ever need you now, is lessened knowing that this boy next to you is just as much an outcast as you are. For where will a Malfoy fit in the new world? It is unspoken, this fear, but so crushingly true that it hurts. Because it echoes in your head and reverberates in the silence and you can connect to him, even if he _is_ a Malfoy. And then, you think, he's not a Malfoy, not anymore. Just like you're not you; he's not him.

"You've won now," breaks the silence and your eyes slide to his face, harsh in the angled sunlight. "Does it feel good?"

And you don't lie because you know he won't expect you to like everyone else will. Who is he to judge, after all?

"No."

And as if in agreement, part of the wall opposite you buckles and collapses outward onto the grass of the lawn below, a shower of rocks assaulting you from above and before you can react, you're crushed to the floor, the weight knocking the breath from your lungs. And the thought that runs through your mind: _What a pathetic way to die_.

And then you breathe. And again. And the weight that you thought was surely killing you is rising, lifting, hesitating, shaking. Blood pounds through your head, air through your lungs, and your name echoes in your head. Hermione. _Hermione_.

"Hermione?"

His hand is shaking your arm, his voice panicked and squeaky. And years of habitual revulsion cause you to push his hand away before you're even aware enough to realise that he is hunched over you, bits of rubble clinging to his robe, a new bloody stain in his white-blond hair. And you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to bring yourself to apologise, no matter how little you care about your history anymore. But this is something you've never had to face before, making a mistake. You are the girl who prepares in advance, learns everything perfect the first time, to avoid any embarrassing failures later. But, then again, you've changed. Maybe you're not _that_ girl anymore, either.

"I'm fine." You say it harshly, and you wonder who you're trying to convince. And then purse your lips, because you hate how you feel. Everything is changed, including you, and it'll be weeks, maybe months, before you figure out who you are again. And you're an impatient girl. And maybe that's the one thing that hasn't changed.

"Jesus." His hair is beginning to drip red and an awful sinking feeling in your stomach tells you that's your fault. Without warning, you pull his head closer to examine the fresh wound and he doesn't fight you, which oddly makes you feel better than you've felt in ages. You sweep the side of your wand lightly against his hair, brushing aside a strand from his eyes as you lean away. "Can't get a break, can we?"

Then, for the second time tonight, his lips are pressed against yours, and you're sure that the impulse didn't come from you this time. But you don't resist.

And you think, _this is going to change our lives._


	4. Break Down or Break Away

_"No more dead bodies for daddy tonight."  
-- Grindhouse_

* * *

The one thing of which you're certain in the aftermath of war is the inescapable and inevitable -- _inevitable_ -- uncertainty. You suppose everyone must be feeling that uneasy sense of anticipation, drifting around the castle like one of its phantasmic former tenants who are unable to move on, chilling the air and distracting thoughts. But in this deserted corridor, forgotten by the world, illuminated by sunlight pouring onto the ragged edges of centuries-old stones, you've had enough of ghostly anticipation. You've had enough.

"We have regrets."

Do you even know how to ask a real question anymore? Everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like a demand; your words are sharp at the edges and you wonder: _for defence? or attack?_

"I thought I wasn't allowed to have regrets."

You're surprised to hear your laugh permeate the open spaces of the corridor, your old laugh, your real laugh. An entire lifetime separates you from that laugh, but amazingly it makes you feel so normal. Maybe, someday, you will be all right again. The world will be all right. And you'll be allowed to be just another girl living an ordinary life.

He is still a smart-ass. He is still a prat.

So, there is still some predictability, some certainty in your world.

"If you had a time-turner _right now_ and you could go back to any one moment, any one you wanted, to change it, which one would you choose?"

And you watch his eyes as they grow more and more distant from you, removed to some moment days or months or perhaps even years ago when he does something he is ashamed of. That moment, that is so vivid in his mind in this one, will never be revealed to you; he will never share it with you over a private and quiet dinner or between the sheets after you've made love. You will wonder for the rest of your life, even after he's married to a woman who is not you and you to a man who is not him, what he is thinking right now.

"Do you have a time-turner?"

No. Of course you don't.

"Then it doesn't matter, does it?" His eyes return to the present, and he looks at you, ice-grey eyes burning an impression of them into your memory. "I'm through living in the past. I've more regrets than I can count, but I'd rather forget them in the future than relive them in the past. It comes down to this moment."

He stands slowly, steadies himself against the wall, offers you his hand.

"We either break down or break away. And, frankly, I don't think I'm strong enough to break away alone."

The implications swell in your chest and make you want to choose the first option. In so many words, he is telling you he needs you. But what if you're not strong enough? What if, even together, you can't break away, break through? And then through to where? You're terrified of the merciless abyss that is dependence.

_Co-dependence_, a second version of your voice corrects. And you inhale deeply. And grasp his hand.


	5. Finding Courage

_"We may not enjoy living together, but dying together isn't going to solve anything."  
-- Night of the Living Dead_

* * *

Your hands are clasped tightly together, interlocking fingers white and tense as skeletons'. Your blood has fled, retreating to your heart, leaving your hand cold in his. You would be shaking if not for the definitive and, you imagine, feigned steadiness of his fingers pressing pale spaces in to the back of your hand. And beside you, his body is tense, his weight shifting differently than normal, and you know you're not the only one who's afraid.

The halls of your school, the same ones that housed years of innocent ambition and friendship and intrigue, crumble before you in a long and immense tunnel leading to judgement and prejudice. That is all that awaits you at the end of this road, you know it. The moment you step into the Great Hall, hand-in-hand with Draco Malfoy, you will cease to be clever, composed Hermione Granger. Suddenly, in the space of a single glance, you will become a traitor, instantly suspicious. And it won't matter your reasonings or explanations; there will be no returning to who you were before. And everyone will know.

Passing by empty classrooms and blasted windows, the wreckage begins to resemble your life, a concrete double of your current situation. Bleak and unstable, your world is fraying at the edges, threatening to unravel completely at any given moment, indifferent to your shaky attempts to figure out how to fix it, to make it all right. You're not used to feeling so inapt.

Much too soon, lifetimes too soon, you find yourself striding through the Entrance Hall toward the great and ominous doors to the Great Hall beyond, filled and overflowing with relief and joy and sorrow and regret. Regret.

Early morning sunlight floods this room, and you are distracted momentarily as it washes over you, tripping over smooth stones that are broken crystal balls, trickling into the hidden corners. And you wonder if those crystalline fragments have ever held the image of Hogwarts as it is right now. Perhaps in a private and forgotten moment of solitude, did giant bespectacled eyes foresee, like figures in a stained glass window, Hogwarts and its protectors beneath a crystal surface, crumbling and yet, somehow, victorious?

And now, with this thought circling your head like clairvoyant mist in one of those beautiful, mystical, under-appreciated balls, you realise that the important bit of such a vision wouldn't be the crumbling, but the victorious. Despite the death and the sadness and the pain, good triumphed, no matter how cliché and improbable. And you return to that word, the one that will define this war for you: inevitable.

"It's a bit overwhelming."

You hadn't even realised you'd stopped moving, but his words shock you back into awareness. And his words are so heartbreakingly true. His shoulders slump, a silent admittance of defeat that you feel resonate in his fingers before he even releases your hand. He forces his fists deep into his trouser pockets and hunches his shoulders, creating a defence around himself, his head angled toward his chest. Trying to escape. And you can hardly blame him.

"I can't." You wait for more. "I can't walk in there with you. We're different people; you belong in there, not me. That's the griffin's den, Granger. We'd be mad to traipse in there together, as if anything is different, as if anything has changed. I mean, let's face it: it hasn't."

You grab his arm, pulling his hand out of his pocket and clenching it in yours. What danger is the griffin's den if you have the strength of two?

"It hurts, I know, Malfoy. No one knows better than me. But succumbing, giving in, only makes the pain worse. The more you prolong it, the more intense it is. We have to do this."

You nod. And you don't even wait for a reply before you march into the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy's hand firmly wrapped around your own.


	6. Into the Griffin's Den

_"If you do one thing I don't approve of while I'm gone, the LEAST _

_little thing, mind you… I'll show you what horror means!"  
-- Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde  
_

* * *

Perhaps your aptitude for divination is stronger than Professor Trelawney ever realised – the shocked and disgusted faces that greet the sight of you in the Great Hall are exactly as you had envisioned them. Even the bereaved – one face in particular, wet and swollen with tears, your disappointed sometimes-mother – follow you down the hall with their betrayed eyes. And there exists only you and Malfoy in your world of suffering; the rest of them hurt in other ways – they cannot know _your_ pain.

At the opposite end of the hall, Hogwarts' new Headmistress stands on the dais, frozen and, from the expression on her face, obviously displeased. It was always so easy to read Professor McGonagall, and you used to care what she thought. You took her words to heart, valued few opinions above hers. In a way, she was your model during your time here. She was the voice of reason in these halls, even more so than Dumbledore, especially when he was inspired by a foolish and adventurous idea. McGonagall always remained calm, the constant in a world of change. Now, the only thing you see in her face is prejudice, cold and harsh. And, for the first time in your life, you think: _she doesn't understand_.

Off to one side of this immense, yet stifling, hall, a lanky figure straightens from a crouch at his mother's side to full height. His shoulders are pushed back, his torso leaning toward you as if readying for attack, his freckled cheeks reddening with each moment, his eyes staring not at you, but the man beside you, who squeezes your hand, and you know he's noticed Ron. And for some reason, this moment never entered your mind when you considered, like you always do, what you would have to face in the Great Hall. Ron's reaction – you hadn't even thought of it, and in the back of your mind, a protest rises, quiet but definitive: _he's not my boyfriend_. And why would you think that? What have you to be defensive about?

But already you know you will never be able to explain the connection you have with Malfoy, your enemy, your nemesis, your villain. It hardly makes sense to you, but you believe it, if only for the fact that you know – it's so obvious – that Malfoy feels it, too. You wouldn't be standing here, clutching his hand in yours, facing people who now doubt your affiliation, if he didn't.

And, even if Ron isn't your boyfriend, he's something. Or he was, six hours ago. And so suddenly you feel protective of this thing you have with Malfoy, because, despite the fact that it's messy, still sticky with afterbirth, this is what is going to get you through the hard weeks just after the end. _He_ is what's going to get you through.

You're looking up at McGonagall, her stern eyes peering down at you, that unyielding stare clearly telling you that you are making a mistake. Turn around, Miss Granger, you've started down the wrong path. But amidst all the uncertainty you feel right now, his hand in yours makes you feel strong and sure, and you say, loud enough for everyone to hear: "We want to help."

But, to your surprise, she doesn't respond, but stares at you, her head rotating from left to right, left to right, her eyes unwavering, a bizarre and cautionary effect.

"Hermione—"

"We are _going_ to help." And maybe your newfound inability to ask a question, your recent resort to threats, is going to be your strength in the coming weeks, when the people who believe they care most for you try to convince you that you've gone mad, that the Hermione they know would never act so foolishly. But you refuse to let her prevent you from keeping busy, finding purpose, moving on, putting this behind you.

Her lips pinch together like they always do. But she says: "Get rid of the curse remnants in the hospital wing. We need to clear it of any residual magic before we can start moving the injured in." You nod your head and feel Malfoy's fingers relax just the tiniest bit against your hand. You begin to turn with him, but she raises her hand to you, catching your attention, and her eyes are more dangerous than ever. But they are not directed at you, and the cruelty in them reminds you of every glare Snape ever gave you. "You," she says, her voice rank with scepticism and warning, "be careful."

"Don't worry, Professor," you say, "we'll look out for each other."


	7. Vulnerability

_"I meddled in things that man must leave alone."  
-- The Invisible Man __  
_

* * *

A thick silence hangs heavily in the air, much like the residual spellwork wafting through the large hospital wing. There's a hint of unpredictability to it, a bit of danger. And so you let it be, working from one end of the wing to the other, flourishing your wand silently while your mind races ahead, concentrating on counter-jinxes and wrist movement.

In the absence of sound, your ears suddenly detect an even more absolute sense of quiet and you realise that there is no ruffling cloak, no shuffling shoes, no swishing wand. Draco has stopped moving, and in the blink of an eye, you spin on your heel, your wand pointing out into the expanse, prepared to counter any number of strangled curses. But your heartbeat slows to normal as your eyes slide over his body, lying unmoving in a perfectly straight line on the marble floor. His eyes are open, staring to the ceiling above; he seems unaffected by your show of fear and doubt. And your throat constricts, guilt seeping down the back through the scratchy walls.

You tuck your wand into your robes, and lie down next to him, your hands stretched down the sides of your legs, reaching towards your feet, elongated and endless. You practise being perfectly still -- no movement at all. And it is unnervingly difficult, to lie this way, unprotected, next to a man who was prepared to deliver you to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named just a few hours ago. But you force yourself to breathe through your nostrils, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Someday, this will be second nature to you and you will swear that you've been lying next to him your entire life -- who else could there have been? But now, you feel vulnerable.

"I'm not proud," his voice comes from your right. "I did what I thought I had to to stay alive."

"Me too," you say.

And you place your right hand on top of his left gently, sliding up the sleeve of his robes, and take hold of his arm. Part of you cannot believe it; the other feels somehow victorious, as if it knew all along: the skin on his arm is smooth and pale. You rub your thumb over his wrist and feel him shiver. He was never a Death Eater. Only a pawn.

"In war, people do unspeakable things. Maybe," you shake your head, "maybe one day we'll be able to talk about them." And you're right, you will. But not today. "Until then, we'll just..."

But your thoughts melt away as he smothers your words with another kiss. And you know this is going to change your life.


End file.
